07 september 2000
overwhelm'd

tell me please tell me
what does it take to be
that's all, just to be

"I never feel awful after eating falafel."

That came out of my mouth around 10pm. Mindless and stupid, yet happily surprising in the sense that I found myself with a renewed ability to form a sentence.

Sometime today I realized the extent to which "Life" is happening to me. It's what I've been hoping for, but at the same time I feel as if I'm rooted to the ground in the path of a steamroller. My own life is threatening to flatten me.

I stumbled into the office at around 8:45am, feeling rather relaxed yet peppy, settled at my desk, and checked my voice mail.

The first message was from my old boss, saying how "disappointed" he was that his website wasn't finished yet. Didn't I have the time to engross myself in code last night with the sole purpose of pleasing his every last-minute whim? No, fuck that. When I left I told him that the only time I'd be able to work would be weekends -- the weeknights since have been a favor. Give 'em an inch, and they'll expect a mile. Or make that a mile-and-a-half, since they take the goalposts and keep on moving them further away at the last minute.

Last night I had a wonderful dinner with Rachel, and even if I didn't, I wouldn't have worked on the old company's site. They still haven't paid me for the last two weeks of August.

Weekends. Yes, weekends. I'll get to it sometime tomorrow night.

11am found me in a meeting with circulation, talking about what to do with a half million email addresses they have from our subscribers. I drank the first of many cups of coffee.

Back at my desk, another voice mail awaited me. This time it was IceDog.

"Yo Chuck ... the magazine people can't use our stock photos, so they're sending a photographer to rehearsal tonight. Bring all your clothes and shit, and show up at 7 ready to play -- after running through the set we'll change and they'll shoot us. Problems? Page me."

So I paged him. My stage clothes were at my apartment, lord knows where and most likely wrinkled. I needed to pick up Wamba in Culver City before practice, and I had a late meeting scheduled with my new boss. Add to that extraneous facial hair that now needed to be removed, and I felt, well ... pretty fucked.

Halfway through my message to IceDog I realized the solution, which was to run home immediately and shave, pick up the clothes, and high-tail it back to the office for a 2pm meeting with a rather large company that we're partnering with for the community portion of our site. So I did that.

(in case you're wondering, the magazine in question is Entertainment Today and the photo is for the front cover -- yes, our band is being plastered on the cover of a pretty damned big mag -- and, to be honest, I wasn't really having an "I feel so attractive I just belong on the cover of a magazine" day)

I made it back just in time for the big meeting, and it went well, and afterwards my G4 Cube arrived, back from Apple, where I had to send it for repair after my DVD drive went bad. Kudos to Apple for an thirty-six-hour turnaround on the repair. I so missed that machine and it's really good to have it back.

The next three hours were punctuated by way too much coffee on my part, a bunch of phone calls, and an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach, derived from an ever-increasing dread of being overwhelmed by my own existence.

I was packing up around 5:15 when Brutus walked in...

"Whaddya doin'?"

"Wrapping up ... we've got an emergency photo shoot tonight."

"Oh, I was wondering why you shaved. Can you gimme twenty more minutes?"

"um... why, whaddya need to go over?"

"Oh, it's not me. _You_ gotta go over, across the street, with me, and have a beer before you get behind the wheel of a car as wired as you are."

Hmm ... he was telling me I needed to drink before I drove. Couldn't argue with that logic.

I left the Dume Room at 5:45 and drove through semi-heavy traffic on PCH towards Wamba's place. The drive was an hour-long panic attack. "A beer" wasn't enough to calm me down. Visions of "success" I'm not ready for, letting down everyone who seems to all-of-a-sudden have so much faith in me and my abilities, prehensile guilt for my impending failure, longing to simply be the lonely and horny geek I've become so comfortable just being.

I picked up Wamba and we got to the studio on the dot of seven. I chugged a beer in the bathroom and we ran through the two songs we're playing during the cable tv show taping tomorrow night.

(oh, did I mention that we're taping a cable tv talkshow tomorrow night? I don't even know what show it is, just another thing for me to worry about)

The photographer was late, so we ran through the set for the next gig. I've never sang worse -- too tense, or something. I dunno what it was, but I wouldn't have been able to find the right key in a locksmith's shop tonight.

Finally, the photographer arrived with his lighting assistant. We changed clothes and they set us up in the parking lot, against the wall of the building. It was a rather uncomfortable photo shoot (not that I have much basis for comparison), with my left leg falling asleep throughout and my fake smile just not feeling quite right. A small crowd gathered at the car wash next door to watch the whole thing. I felt rather naked and a bit too much on display, my geeky chest bared and primed to be distributed next week to a half-million unsuspecting Angelinos. I really like performing and playing music, but the whole concept of potential fame is strangely unsettling.

Wrapping up the photo shoot, we packed up our gear for the tv show, I made a strange comment about falafel, and we left around 10. I hung out at Wamba's house for about a half-hour, just trying to settle myself down. Frenetic is a mild way to describe my state of mind right now, despite the fact that I'm ten times more relaxed than I was about four hours ago.

I can't seem to pace my mind ... too much to comprehend -- I suddenly feel like a child who needs to be shown the way, overwhelmed and unable to make sense of this life that's living me ... somehow I need to flip my consciousness 180.

For now I'll try to sleep. Maybe I'll make sense of it all tomorrow.

A final note of apology to the ones I've blown off over the past couple of weeks. You know who you are, and I'm sorry. I'll be in touch very soon.

(due to the loss of my digital camera, today's picture is from two years ago)

(the geeku at top is from two years ago too, but I found it strangely appropriate)

07 september 1999: : didn't write

07 september 1998: labored daze : How do you politely tell a six year old that you need to be alone for a while?

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